


A Moment's Respite

by SupposedToBeWriting



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Basically A Breath of Relief - A Fic, First Night at the Safehouse - A Fic, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Set in between EP159/160ish, there's only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22229131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupposedToBeWriting/pseuds/SupposedToBeWriting
Summary: After escaping the Lonely, Jon knows where he has to go. He can't exactly call it safe, but it's safer than where they had been. And Martin, he figures, deserves just a bit of safe. At least for one night.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 11
Kudos: 171





	A Moment's Respite

It wasn’t that Martin didn’t _believe_ him, Jon knew, but the sigh of relief that he gave when they entered the safehouse was unmistakable. Maybe it was that Martin felt like Bouchard or Lukas or _anyone_ couldn’t track him down here – maybe it was that this was a pretty good indicator that Jon wasn’t planning to get him somewhere isolated to kill him. Eat his brain and leave his body for the cows.

Martin hadn’t really been himself since their escape from The Lonely. He had stumbled out holding Jon’s hand, and Jon immediately knew what he had to do. He had to keep them _safe._ With Julia and Trevor and Not-Sasha – with Basira and Daisy nowhere to be found – with Melanie and Georgie refusing to be of any help whatsoever – Martin was the only one he could, feasibly, keep safe. If that meant staying in a very small safehouse for the rest of his life in Scotland, so fucking be it then.

Martin had been eerily silent when Jon had taken him to his flat to pack. There wasn’t much to get. Jon had been to Martin’s flat only once before, _years_ ago, after a curry run with coworkers had shifted into getting drinks (mostly, Jon privately thought, because Tim could only withstand a few hours of them sober) and he’d been a little uncertain about Martin getting home safely on the tube. Martin had started reciting poetry to him, composed on the spot. Nothing specific, nothing – thank _god –_ romantic, but Jon had felt so awkward that he’d never brought it up again and he was positive, now, that Martin considered it one of the most embarrassing moments of his life.

Martin’s address came to him immediately, nevertheless. While he would like to say that his one experience near Martin’s home had left such a profound impact on him that he never forgot it, he knew it was far more likely that he just … Knew it.

He hadn’t interfered as Martin had packed. Martin hadn’t said a word, just came out of the bedroom with a bag around his shoulder. The trip to Jon’s flat had been similarly, strangely, excruciatingly silent. Martin’s expression was listless. Jon had packed the essentials, no books, no tape recorders. His flat was rather empty to begin with. He’d been travelling so much over the past few months that most of it was done for him already.

The only momentary delay had been in the kitchen. Opening a drawer, Jon’s hand had passed over a ice pick. _Can’t find me then,_ a fed-up, delirious part of his brain told him, _Can you!? Just blind myself and that’s that! Good luck searching every blade of grass on the planet for me!_

Martin had shifted on the couch in the front room, causing the leather to squeak loudly, and Jon had put the ice pick back in the drawer. No. Martin needed him at his full strength. _Jon_ needed to keep him safe. He thought about bringing it along for later, perhaps months down the line, the final nail on the coffin for remaining undetectable.

How funny. Even after everything, he feared … pain. He feared the loss of sight. Even if he wasn’t strictly human, anymore, he didn’t _want_ to blind himself. Jon couldn’t even wrap his mind on whether the decision was selfish. How exactly had he landed himself in a life where _not stabbing himself in the eyes_ was selfish?

Jon considered taking it for later, but that would put the onus on Martin to take care of him. They wouldn’t have many resources. They would have to go to a hospital, at some point. If they had to run away quickly … the Magnus Institute wasn’t their only enemy, and he doubted the Stranger would care about his eyes being there or not. Other than _eating them,_ maybe.

Uncertain of whether he was feeding excuses to himself or making valid points, Jon shut the drawer and picked his bag up.

In the cab, Jon had caught him starting to doze off. Panic alarms had started to ring his brain – _I don’t know what the Lonely did to you, Martin, but I know what the Buried did to Daisy and I know it can’t be anything good, please just stay awake a little longer until I’m certain_ – and he’d nudged him to keep him awake. Martin had looked down at him, made a non-committal grunt, and opened his eyes again.

It was only when they’d boarded a train that Jon got his first proper word out of him. They’d been lucky and it was only the two of them on this particular car. It turned out that very few wanted to go to the middle of nowhere at 7 PM on a Thursday. Jon was bouncing his leg restlessly. Hungry, and anxious, and he’d caught someone with Julia’s hair color in line to board and he’d nearly had a heart attack over it. The grey, drab London skyline disappeared into nondescript countryside. Jon’s breathing started to calm, but he was certain it wouldn’t _get_ calmer until they were alone. He raised his thumb to his mouth and started to chew on the nail.

“Jon,” Martin asked him quietly. Like a cornered animal, Jon’s head snapped up to stare at him. “Where are we going?”

 _Oh._ Where were they going? Jon hadn’t realized he’d just sort of … bought a ticket. Hadn’t even been thinking about it, had just sort of _followed instinct._ He looked out the window, at his phone, at the ticket. _Scotland?_ “Daisy has a safehouse, and I know …” Pausing, Jon removed the nail from his mouth and gestured towards the window. “Know. The code to get in.”

“Okay.” Martin’s voice was little more than a croak. Jon opened his bag and scavenged for a bottle of water, before passing it over to him. The Lonely had tasted of saltwater. Had been cold, too. Jon shifted off his jacket and passed that over, too, only to be rejected with a wave of the hand. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

The jacket was folded and placed next to him. _I need a shower,_ Jon thought to himself dismally. _Should’ve taken one at the flat._ But it’d been so urgent. But he smelled. But they had to get out of London. _Does Martin notice I smell?_ Covertly, he rose his arm to lean it against the window, giving himself a sniff. _I definitely smell. Oh god._ He looked straight forward on the train car, eyes wide.

“Do you know where the others are? Basira? Daisy?” A beat. “Elias?”

“No. The last I saw them, they were fending off Julia Montauk, Trevor Herbert, and … the thing that ate Sasha,” Jon sighed out. He leaned forward until his elbows were resting on his knees, face in hand. “Don’t know about Elias.”

“Julia and Trevor?”

Ah. Martin didn’t know. “It has been …” How would he even word it? “A _really_ long day.”

“Right. Thank you, for getting me out of there. I didn’t realize – you must think I’m a _gigantic_ idiot for letting it go that far.” Martin’s voice was starting to turn self-deprecating. “I just thought it was the best thing to _do._ I mean, I didn’t know Lukas’ plan for sure, but I knew it only involved me, and –”

“ _Martin.”_ Jon’s voice was full of magnitude and seriousness, in a way that immediately shut Martin up. “You did what you thought was best for _everyone._ Honestly, in the exact same shoes you were, I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the exact same thing.” Maybe with a bit more foot-stamping and brooding, sure. “Making you an agent of the Lonely … I can see why Lukas would want that. He’d get the Institute.” He paused, biting his lip. “Though I don’t know why Elias would bet him.”

It was clear, from the look on Martin’s face, that he didn’t know either. Which made it impossible to know who had the better deal in this scenario. Jon wasn’t doing a very good job at cheering Martin up, clearly.

“ _But,”_ he continued, “What I _do_ know is that we did the right thing. Whatever comes next, Martin, I _need_ you to help me.”

 _I need at least one bonafide human being that I like and trust and know to make sure I don’t become a total, irredeemable monster. And,_ Jon added internally, because his mouth would _never_ be able to form those words out loud, _I would lose it if you died. The others, I would be devastated, yes, but Martin, I would lose it._

At least it seemed to stir up Martin’s spirits a little. He offered Jon a quiet smile. His arms were crossed in front of him as he leaned against the wall, seeming to make himself much smaller than he was. It looked like he wanted to disappear. “Tired?” He continued, to which Martin slowly nodded.

Jon knew that Martin desperately wanted to be alone. Too kind to tell him that, of course, and nevertheless appreciative of the support, but this was probably the longest conversation he’d had in months. Jon wasn’t going to leave him alone, either, because _that_ was a stupid idea. Sleeping was alright, though, now that they were out of danger. Instead, Martin leaned back up and picked up Jon’s coat next to him. “Get some rest, won’t you? I’ll wake you if …” A stunned, nervous smile crossed his face. “If the world ends?” Martin draped the coat over himself and settled against the window. _Oh god, the coat probably smells like me. I’m an idiot._

Nevertheless, Martin grinned over at him gratefully. He adjusted the coat around him and closed his eyes against the train wall, leaving Jon to his thoughts. He wasn’t even sure if Martin would sleep, but the poor man needed a rest.

Jon rubbed his hands down his pant legs, letting out a slow, unsteady breath. The same hands brushed against his rapidly unkempt beard. His hair had become unruly and unmanageable ages ago, and now was piled in a greasy ponytail on the back of his head. He would need to cut it. He needed to sleep. He needed to Eat. He needed everything, and everyone … just to be okay.

He needed to be certain that this was the right path.

But he couldn’t be. Because, for all the powers that the Eye gave him, it was fundamentally fucking indifferent when it came to his friends. Except, Jon noted wryly, insignificant details like the amount of times Martin had ever had his hair cut in his life ( _twenty-four, four months since his last visit)._

No, in this case, Jon was precisely as blind as anyone else. More than, because Jon knew he was not precisely _easy_ to get along with – or, ironically, to share things with.

He watched Martin sleep, blond hair pulled back in a ponytail not dissimilar to Jon’s own style. At first, Jon idly wondered if Martin had copied how he kept his hair, perhaps out of a bizarre fondness … before he remembered that Martin had _always_ kept his hair on the longer side. When Jon had first started working at the Archives, his own had been well-maintained, carefully parted and gelled and cut close to his scalp.

Then it had gone by the wayside as things had went to hell. Now, it had the consistency of straw and badly needed a wash and some product. He’d gone much more salt-and-pepper than his age would imply. What had started as a few errant gray strands as he worried about … _worms_ below the Archives or whatever faff, had turned into two gray streaks at his temples mixing into the rest of his hair.

He frowned. Martin had gone through hell, too. Hardly fair that his hair was still lovely and sandy blond, a few strands straight as a pin around his round face. He looked tired, of course, but it wasn’t in the vaguely daunting fashion that Jon was. Martin looked _friendly,_ still, full of warmth and ready to help. Jon looked like he slurped people’s brains for a bit of fun.

“You’re staring,” Martin mumbled at him, eyes still closed. “Knock it off.”

“Sorry.” Jon settled his own head onto the window and shut his eyes, feeling some of the tension leave him. He felt weak, still, hungry … but just for now, he could rest.

The train ride ended at night, and the two had stumbled off the train and into the countryside of Scotland. It hadn’t gone well. Jon was mostly navigating off of instinct, which didn’t particularly bode well when they were trampling through fields that looked all mostly the same. They trampled through long grass, against the sound of buzzing insects and guided only by the moon and Jon’s own Knowledge.

Martin didn’t utter a word of complaint, and Jon was so grateful for him. It took far longer than it should, and when they finally came to it, they’d nearly stumbled upon the door. A genuine Daisy Tonner safehouse.

Built for utility. Not precisely for comfort.

At one point, it had been a cottage, not that Jon would ever feel comfortable calling it a _nice_ one. A portion of it was entirely uninhabitable, with the ceiling falling in and overgrown grass visible from the outside. There was a door, however, and at least one room seemed solidly … inhabitable. More to the point, it definitely looked like _nobody_ else lived there.

He looked behind him and sent an apologetic look towards Martin. “I’ve seen worse,” he offered optimistically, and Jon could have hugged him in that moment. It wasn’t like he _expected_ Martin to drag his heels, but it was nice to have pleasant company.

The door was newer than the rest of the cottage. And … a digital keycode that was likely the newest thing within five miles. At least next to the village they passed. Jon didn’t know what its name was. He needed to look where they were, exactly, but all that could be planned later. His fingers, trembling, hovered over the keypad before he put in a series of digits that he didn’t recognize.

“Basira’s birthday,” Martin filled in behind him suddenly, which made Jon jump. “How’d you – right.”

“I think the more relevant question is why do _you_ know Basira’s birthday, Martin?”

“Oh, don’t tell me _that’s_ a weird thing to know. We’ve worked with her for a while. I’ve _known_ for a while. You’re the one who forgets people have things like – like birthdays, or siblings, or whatever.”

There was a beat as the door unlocked. Jon opened it and stepped inside. The inside was more modern than the exterior would imply. Clean wooden floors that didn’t have a speck of dust on them. The walls were reinforced with metal struts. Windows at two locations that gave a lovely few of Animal Field and Path to Village Field respectively. A desk, a couch, two chairs, a little make-do kitchen, a coffee table, a little dining table, a chest, a half-full bookcase. There was a door leading to a small bathroom – oh, thank god, it had a shower.

It smelled of disinfectant. Jon walked over to the walls and pressed down on them, trying to see if they were weak, and he was given no leeway. Secure. There had been a decent wind outside, and he couldn’t even hear it indoors. Daisy had taken the cottage and refitted it to look perfectly unassuming, while being incredibly sturdy. _God bless Daisy Tonner._

That was when he heard Martin sigh in relief.

“I’ve stayed in much worse,” Jon echoed his thoughts, turning around with his hands on his hips. “It’ll do.”

“Have we got a light anywhere?”

Trudging through the field for near-on an hour had let Jon’s eyes adjust to the darkness, but that was a fair point. His hand groped along the wall before he found a switch and flicked on the light. In the sudden brightness, Jon groaned and pressed his palms against his eyes.

Beside him, Martin started to laugh. To guffaw, actually, with such abandon that his eyes started to water. Jon blinked wildly and turned to Martin in confusion.

“The ­– the _painting_ on the wall!” Martin gestured wildly towards it as he faced the wall in an attempt to pull himself together. His entire face was flushed dark red. Eyes wide with warm, Jon turned to the painting set over the couch.

He didn’t get the joke. “It’s a … field?” It didn’t look particularly well-done, but he was hardly an art critic. Or a farmer, for that matter. “A wheat field?”

“It’s of a _field._ And we’re surrounded by – just – _fields!”_ Martin exclaimed. When he turned towards Jon again, he was beaming. It made Jon’s heart warm. He hadn’t seen many genuine, delighted smiles recently. “There’s a painting of a field while we’re _surrounded_ by fields. Why would they put in a painting of a field!?”

“I don’t think Daisy is precisely an art critic?”

Martin stood in front of the painting for some time longer, to the point where Jon started to get worried. At least it was better than a picture of the ocean, or of space, or god forbid something more gory, but if it was going to send Martin into laughing fits all the time … “Sorry, sorry,” he apologized, waving Jon off. “Sorry. I think it just hit me that it’s over. It’s over, and I’m just _looking_ at a painting of a field in the middle of –“ There, he dissolved into laughter again.

Martin needed a moment. And Jon needed a shower. Jon walked over and rubbed his back, between his shoulder blades, over the jacket. It was difficult to tell whether he was laughing or starting to cry, but he most definitely needed a moment to himself after everything. Jon murmured that he was going to go have a wash and left Martin in the front room.

It was possibly the best shower that Jon had ever taken. _And_ he’d remembered to bring his robe. He stepped out of the shower and tied it securely around his waist, before examining himself in the mirror. More grays hairs, as always. Dark circles under his eyes. Circular scars spotting his face, from worms extracted via corkscrew by the charming young man just outside.

Leaning forward, Jon ran one finger down the side of his face. The dark skin was rough, almost scaly in some places. Martin _had_ to use some sort of facial lotion and would perhaps be keen on sharing. Then again, lotion sort of put him off since the … well. Since the everything.

He’d make do. Some water would be fine for now. Splashing his face with it, Jon rubbed it off with a towel and stepped back outside into the other room.

Martin had extracted the pull-out bed from the couch. The chest was open next to it, and Martin was busying himself with fixing the sheets and comforter on it. Daisy, at least, made sure this place was habitable. Good. Jon hadn’t realized how tired he was until the shower was over and he was combing through his hair, trying to get it something near presentable.

Wait.

“There’s only one bed,” Jon remarked as Martin extracted a few pillows from the chest and hit them. Some dust clouds did burst out into the air as he plopped them onto the bed.

Martin turned around, looked down at the sheets, and then up at Jon. His expression was … unreadable. “There’s only one bed,” he agreed.

They met eyes. Martin loved him, and Jon knew that Martin loved him, and Martin knew that Jon knew Martin loved him, so Jon supposed the ball was really in his court to accept, wasn’t it, except the only advantage to that was something simpering and useless like _his own love life_ and there were a thousand disadvantages to it, like Jon’s constant travel, his issues with emotional intimacy, and the fact that he was an actual goddamn – _Eye Monster!_

So, no. It was best to just ignore what he knew. Maybe, when or if the entire matter sorted itself out and Jon was positive about who he was and who he was meant to do, maybe.

“There’s only one bed,” Jon agreed for the second time, and that was when Martin flushed and looked down to fiddle with some imperfection in the duvet. Coughing awkwardly, Jon went to go search for his toothbrush in his bag. Martin shuffled past him to use the shower himself.

It would be fine. It wouldn’t be awkward at all. In the morning, they’d unpack fully and maybe have a call down to London and see what was on. While Jon liked to think that his senses would Tell him if someone had actually died, someone he cared about … he knew that, when it came to his friends, his powers weren’t all that useful.

He just had to tell himself that Basira was capable – and Daisy more than – and Georgie was unafraid – and Melanie had made herself a bystander. And Martin was _here._ And that was the grand sum of it.

So why, Jon thought to himself, staring outside the darkened window at the fields beyond, did it feel like there were _ants_ under his skin? Absent-mindedly, he scratched at the almost perfectly circular scars on his face. _Nothing to be done now,_ Jon told himself, _but wait._ He turned from the window and crouched to examine the half-bookshelf. It was roughly hewn and only reached Jon’s calf, but there were a dozen-and-a-half books that would occupy the time. Hopefully.

 _To think,_ Jon thought to himself grimly, _all of this started from a book. Would you ever have gotten involved with the supernatural if not for the intervention of one Mr. Spider himself?_ He still recalled the book, the _dread_ that came with it, and the sensation that it had somehow remained with him, that he need only glance through the bookshelf and find it there …

Jon was still by the bookshelf when Martin came out of the shower. He didn’t hear him walk over, and indeed jumped when Martin asked in a loud voice, “Anything worth reading?”

He hadn’t looked at a single title. “Ehm, eh,” Stalling, Jon quickly scanned them. _No,_ he thought to himself, _this doesn’t seem much Daisy’s taste._ “Looks like the free bin at a book sale.” Perhaps Daisy had filled it up once, to keep up appearances for one reason or another, but he doubted that this gave any real insight to her mind. He reached forward and let his fingers trail along a spine before extracting it. “Any real urge to read _The Taming of the Shrew?”_

Martin chuckled and crouched next to him. It was only then that Jon realized Martin was just in his boxers – _right, yes, that’s how he sleeps, you knew that, right –_ and he froze by the bookshelf. Martin reached forward and plucked what looked to be a harlequin romance novel. “At least it’s something?”

Jon considered his options and tried to decide what would act best as a soporific. Sleep was what he needed, his mind knew, but his body was tense for the next attack. This seemed less like a safe house and more of a sitting duck situation. _It’s okay._ He plucked something old with a plain green cloth cover with an inoffensively vague title – _Aspiration –_ and settled on one half of the pull-out bed. It creaked loudly. “It’s certainly something.” Martin settled on the other half, causing another creak, and they both sat in silence with their books on their laps.

In another circumstance, they would have much more to talk about. Not even about their feelings, which seemed paltry and pale against the larger picture. Entities, Martin’s near escape from the Lonely, Jon escaping from yet another hellish domain, the wager between Bouchard and Lukas, Jonah Magnus …

Jon didn’t say a word. He glanced over at Martin, possibly already at the protagonist’s and love interest’s first meeting in the novel, or possibly so stunned by recent events that he was just staring at the letters. His blond hair was wet and stringy, still dripping onto his skin, with his chin tucked down to his chest to read.

 _Safe._ He cracked open his own book, willing himself to get distracted. Or, at least, sleepy. Jon forced himself through one page, then another, then ten, then twenty. It wasn’t like the book was particularly riveting, but it made sense. There was no doubt about the nature of the universe in a book that seemed to center, as much as Jon could understand, on 1870s business enterprises. At a certain point, Martin dog-eared his novel and set it to the side. Jon responded by turning off the overhead light and only keeping the small, nightstand lamp going beside them. It had the additional effect of casting dark shades around the small room – _no, that’s not a bloodstain on the floor, that’s your bag casting a shadow, dramatic –_ and Jon only focused on his book further.

Martin was sleeping on his stomach, face turned towards him. It was slack and his brow was smooth. Unafraid. Jon couldn’t make a true assessment on Martin’s bravery in that moment, but at least Martin clearly felt safe enough, or exhausted enough, to sleep. _Will I ever be unafraid again?_

“You’re staring,” Martin’s voice sounded, lightly annoyed with his eyes shut, “Knock it off.”

“Sorry,” Jon muttered, returning to the book.

Exhaustion didn’t come to him as easily as it did Martin. Jon continued to read for an hour or two more, occasionally looking up out the window. _Face? Is it a face? Do any of the books have eyes on the spines? Would you really put it past Elias not to spy?_ He was paranoid, and it made him restless, but he stayed on the bed. If he got off the bed, he would start to pace. If he started to pace, it would wake up Martin. It wouldn’t be the first all-nighter he had pulled … in the past week, even, and he could remain _on the bed._

Martin took longer to sleep than he should have, but eventually, Jon caught sight of his chest rhythmically rising and falling. Part of his hair was partially obscuring his face. He snored, suddenly enough that Jon jumped, and then Jon honest-to-god started _chuckling_ to himself about it.

God. What a mess everything was.

He didn’t know how much time had passed before Martin started to shift again. The snoring stopped, punctuated by mumbled grunts and the occasional – was that – it couldn’t be – no, it was – a _whine._ Jon looked over to see Martin’s brow furrowed behind his hair. A nightmare. “Martin, it’s alright,” he soothed, even if it sounded false to him. But he could try. “ _Martin._ It’s fine, it’s just _me_ here. No big bad scary mons—” A pause. That wasn’t quite right, was it? “It’s just me here.”

Martin’s arm shot out from beneath the comforter. His fingers folded like a vice around Jon’s ankle, tight to the point where it actually started to _hurt._ Jon let out a yell, more out of surprise than true agony, and yanked his ankle back. That was enough to startle Martin awake. For a second, his bright gray eyes met Jon’s bloodshot ones … and then drifted down to his fingers.

Martin sat up, both hands going to rub at his eyes. “Well, that’s mortifying. I am _so_ sorry, I thought you were a tree branch.”

“I was a tree branch?” Jon asked stupidly.

“Yeah, there was, um, a monster, and I was looking for a weapon, and it’s -- I mean, it’s sort of the same color, isn’t it? A nice oak?”

Suddenly faced with the task of analyzing his own ankle for the first time, Jon stared at it. He was getting maybe a little dry and ashy, he _supposed,_ but – “How many trees have you grabbed with _hair_ on them?”

“I was asleep!”

“Awake enough to think I was a _tree_ branch!” Martin’s face blanched apologetically, and Jon sighed. It wasn’t really a big issue, surely. “What kind of monster? I mean, one we faced before?”

“You’re going to laugh again, but … fine.” Martin took a long breath and stared up at the ceiling. “Worms. After everything that’s happened, after that entire bloody ordeal with Lukas, I cannot believe I am _still_ having nightmares about worms.”

Jon wasn’t laughing. “It’s not like they didn’t try to kill you. And, frankly, on a pure disgust meter … worms are worse than lonely.”

“Worms are worse than lonely, I guess,” Martin sighed, “Lonely’s easier. Anyway. Sorry. I’ll try and avoid grabbing you, again.”

“It’s fine, Martin, really.” He kept a thumb stuck in _Aspiration._ “Go back to sleep. I’ll fend off any worms I see, I promise.”

That, at least, got a smile out of him. Martin settled back down with the blanket pulled up over his shoulders. This time, Martin was facing him, arms halfway outstretched onto Jon’s side of the bed. He wasn’t asleep yet. Jon continued reading, not at all enthralled by Reginald’s foray into the textile industry but intent on keeping his mind away from actual fears.

His eyes flicked over to see Martin’s hand outstretched on the bed. His eyes flicked back to the book, then back to Martin’s hand, and then back to the book, and Jon supposed Reginald would have to wait. If all else failed, he could claim that he thought Martin’s hand was a … flamingo.

Maybe something a bit more dignified. A rose? No, that sounded stupid _and_ simperingly romantic. He would only hope that Martin wouldn’t mention it.

Reaching over, Jon curled the tips of his fingers around Martin’s hand. They curled just into his palm. Martin’s eyes fluttered but did not open entirely. Tucking his knees up against his chest, Jon gave Martin’s hand a small but sympathetic squeeze.

Tomorrow, they would have to make plans about what to do. Next steps. They may have prevented Martin’s complete venture into the Lonely, but they were nevertheless still employees of the Magnus Institute. The Magnus Institute still stood, which meant that they would inevitably be drawn back. Jon did not resent that. He had others that still needed to be kept safe. The entities were still out there, rituals thwarted or not, and he still had the looming suspicion that he was still naïve and ignorant about the future.

Each thud of his heart was a footstep, of someone – _him? –_ coming nearer and nearer to something – _what?_

It took just until dawn for Jon to fall asleep. The position – knees tucked up against his chest, head resting back against the headboard, arm awkwardly thrust to the side to hold onto his companion’s hand – was uncomfortable, and Jon could not say it was the most restful sleep he’d ever gotten. But Martin wasn’t alone, and Jon wasn’t alone, and no matter what lay in wait for him in the shadows … it was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I finished EP160 and almost immediately wrote this fic afterwards as a healing balm. It has been a very long time since this American has wrote UK-set fic. I'm deeply excited for and also deeply worried for Season 5, #nobodywillbeokay.   
> (Also, if anyone has any recommendations for podcasts in the same vein as TMA, I'd love to hear them??? I didn't think I'd be into horror podcasts, but oops, TMA is sucking me into the world of horror audio + literature. I listened to/liked WTNV and have a few others lined up, but can't find anything that scratches a similar itch.)


End file.
